


a new day

by onefootonego (startingXI)



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Gen, tw: explicit mention of violence against a child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-30 07:06:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15746763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startingXI/pseuds/onefootonego
Summary: you’ve always like kara’s apartment. the windows, the colours, the feeling of lightness. you see her easel set up and a pallet of paints laid carefully on the kitchen table. there are a small collection of paint brushes in murky grey water and next to that a bottle of ginger beer.behind you, kara pushes the door closed you hear the sliding of locks into place.the sounds comfort you, ground you.





	a new day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Racethewind_10](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Racethewind_10/gifts).



you don’t go home, not after the day you’ve had. you can’t face the emptiness of the apartment without alex. you can’t face the hauntings that threaten to overwhelm you. so instead, you go somewhere else. you don’t even think about where your body is taking you until you’re there. until you’re almost knocking on kara’s apartment door and she’s pulling it open with a smile.

her smile doesn’t flicker as she reads your expression.

“come in,” she says, and you enter.

you’ve always like kara’s apartment. the windows, the colours, the feeling of lightness. you see her easel set up and a pallet of paints laid carefully on the kitchen table. there are a small collection of paint brushes in murky grey water and next to that a bottle of ginger beer.

behind you, kara pushes the door closed you hear the sliding of locks into place.

the sounds comfort you, ground you.

“sit.” kara says and her hands has come to the small of your back, guiding you towards the couch.

you sit, you sink into the couch close your eyes.

“what can i get you to drink?” kara asks, her hand on the back of the couch.

you know she’s studying you without making it obvious. you know she’s assessing for injuries, for trauma. you know she cares.

“whiskey,” you say, wanting the burn, wanting the removal of these feelings from your chest.

“one.” kara agrees, and you hear her moving around behind you.

you’re not sure what one will do, but it’s better than nothing. besides, you didn’t come here to drink. you could have gone to any bar in town to that. you came here, to kara, for something else. something more. something you can’t, for the moment, put into words.

so you do not try.

instead, kara enters your line of sight once again and in her hand is a whiskey glass, and within that, a globe of ice and the amber liquid itself.

she splurges, you know, on the alcohol she keeps in her apartment.

kara hands you the glass.

you take it and give a hoarse “thanks.”

“do you want to talk about it?” kara asks.

“not yet.” you say, between sips “not yet.”

“okay.” kara says, and her hand skates along the back of your neck, along the top of your shoulder.

“can i play mario kart?” you ask, your voice soft, wavering.

“sure.” and there’s a gentle smile in kara’s voice. 

you’ve got the controller in your hand, and kara takes care of the rest before she moves back to her canvas. you didn’t catch the specifics of what kara was in the midst of, but you know what she tends to paint the most. a scene she must relive a hundred times a day – a scene she tries to erase by immortalising it in paints, or oil pastels. you’ve seen what kara remembers from the end of her world, the explosion of her planet into space dust.

you wonder how many dozens of times she’s painted the scene. you wonder what she looks for, what she’s searching for in her creations.

music filters through the room suddenly. you see kara put down a small black remote and the room is filled with the delicate chords of ludovico einaudi’s fly. you mute the television, not wanting to shatter the tranquillity of the moment.  
you play, she paints and the moon eases itself into the sky.

you sip the whiskey, savouring it instead of chasing the burn you sought earlier. you focus instead of the game in front of you and the music around you.

the day sits heavy on your back, seeping into your spine and curling your shoulders. even as you play, and win, memories of the blood on your hands, your neck, still leaves you with the itch to take a shower. you play for as long as you can until,

kara’s moving across her apartment, carefully putting supplies into the sink for cleaning. she’s careful not to be too loud, careful not to shake you from your own thoughts. however when you speak, and you’re asking if it’s okay to take a shower, kara’s response is genuine and comforting.

“you know where the towels are.” she says “and your spare clothes are in the bottom drawer of the wardrobe.”

you don’t really speak your thanks, just stand, nod and move towards her bathroom. you feel as if the world is miles away from you. the distant sounds of the city feel even further tonight. even the music, previously tethering you to the moment seems to give up its hold. you’re floating, lost in a sea of emotions you are working to both identify and forget.

the shower helps.

the heat, the steam, the comfortable clothes you keep at kara’s for occasions such as this. all in all, you emerge from the bathroom feeling far more human than you did upon entering. pair that with the fact that kara has taken it upon herself to cook dinner,

you can’t help but smile.

“better?”

you nod and kara pushes a glass of water your way.

you take a seat at the island, watching kara cook. for all the jokes made about kara’s ability or lack thereof, in the world of baking – the same cannot be said for her more savoury dishes. the change has been a more recent one, and while you wonder what spurred on the recent dedication to the culinary arts, it’s never felt like the right time to ask. there have been far bigger revelations shared between yourself and kara as of late and heavy conversations seem to be popping up more often than not.

a fact of which,

well,

it’s taken some getting used to. to say the least.

now, you watch kara continue to prepare an array of food. you can spy the makings of a salad, some sort of fish that looks incredibly fresh, and

“isn’t this all a bit healthy for you?” you ask, trying to keep your voice light and thinking that maybe you fail.

“but not for you.” kara says “you like all this.”

which is true enough, and it warms you in a way you can’t find the words for. so instead you offer “want some help with those veggies?”

kara does, and with music once again playing lightly – you two set about cooking dinner. you chop and prepare the salad. she does something with the fish that smells amazing. it takes your stomach rumbling to fully realize just how long it’s been since your last meal.

hours, at least. you vaguely remember something for breakfast and after that,

memories rush to the surface.

the call coming through as a domestic. not something you usually attend, but you were closest to the scene and it sounded violent, it sounded deadly. at the last second, it came through as a potential minor in the house.

nothing could have prepared you for the reality of the situation.

the minor was in the house, she was the victim.

beaten within an inch of her life by people she was supposed to trust, and so much blood you didn’t know what to deal with first. your partner, webb, radioed for an ambulance and for back up while you tried to stem the bleeding.

it was an impossible task.

there had just been too much blood.

you blink and realise kara is standing by your side. you can feel her fingers, feather-light, at your elbow.

“maggie,” kara is saying “where are you?” she asks

“your apartment.” is your wavering reply.

“good,” kara praises gently “what did we cook for dinner?”

you think “fish.” you tell her “salad.”

while your pulse is slowing, your stomach roils on.

“let’s sit down.” kara says.

you don’t say anything, but you let kara guide you to the couch.

you don’t realise that what’s been missing from the night has been something as simple as a hug. for so long have you been dealing with your bad days and your worst days alone that while coming to kara’s was a step forward in itself, she somehow intuits that in this moment what you need, is a hug.

you’re not going to cry. you’re not going to cry. you’re not –

you do.

you cry.

you cry for a long time. you cry for the girl who died. you cry for the siblings who lost a sister. you cry because you don’t know what else to do, and in kara’s arms, on her couch, you feel safe enough to shatter like this.

you cry for what feels like hours and never once does kara waver. she holds you, she runs her hand up and down your back, and when she feels the tension start to take hold,

she loosens her grip, but she murmurs “you’re safe here. i’ve got you. you’re safe here.”

you stay close because you know those words are true. you know that despite the day you’ve had – this is a space where you don’t have to face it alone.

you don’t have to face it all, in fact, if you don’t want to.

and tonight, you don’t.

you have no interest in reliving the nightmare that was your shift. you have no interest in talking about how the girl on the floor could have easily have been you at any one of half a dozen points in your life.

so instead, you cry and you cry and you only stop crying when you hear alex’s voice coming from kara’s phone. you don’t leave the safety of kara’s arms but you do let alex talk you down. you listen to her talk about her day, and how boring conferences are, and how terrible old white men are at keeping quiet - but mostly you listen to

_”i love you so much.”_

and 

_”just a few more days until i’m back.”_

and 

_”keep breathing for me, okay? that’s all you have to do.”_

and it works, her words, karas touch - you’re grounded in the moment, where there is no blood on your hands. where you’re safe. where you can fall asleep with your head in kara’s lap and instead of nightmares, 

there’s nothing. 

a calming nothing created by safety, and by family.


End file.
